


Cell Block Tango

by smartgirlsaremean



Category: Marilyn Hotchkiss' Ballroom Dancing & Charm School (2005), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: But I had fun writing it, F/M, I have no idea if anyone will want to read this, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartgirlsaremean/pseuds/smartgirlsaremean
Summary: Frank Keane is mistaken for a certain Scottish screw-up during a routine traffic stop; while awaiting his phone call, he meets Lacey, Lachlan's biggest fan.





	Cell Block Tango

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written Lacey before.
> 
> I have also never written Frank before.
> 
> I may have gotten in over my head.

The flashing red and blue lights nearly caused Frank Keane’s heart to stop in his chest. He wasn’t speeding, or swerving, or doing anything that could warrant a stop, and he knew there was no reason to panic, but he couldn’t help it - ever since the accident, music and lights had that effect on him. His palms sweating, he pulled over to the side of the road and took several deep breaths while he waited for the officer to approach his passenger-side door.

Several sharp raps announced the officer’s presence, and Frank rolled down the window, smiling timidly.

“Hey, buddy, you’ve got a tail light out,” the man said, leaning down to look in the window. “You need to...wait. I know you!”

Frank blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“What the hell are you doing driving? You haven’t even had your hearing yet!”

“H-hearing?”

“Dammit, are you drunk again?” The officer shook his head. “Step out of the vehicle, Mac.”

“I…”

“I said  _ get out _ .”

His hands trembling, Frank opened the door and stepped carefully out onto the shoulder of the road and waited for the officer to come around.

“I’m not drunk, Officer,” he said, “I’m just confused.”

“Not much difference with you, is there? Come on, Mac, this is stupid even for you.”

“I...I think there’s been a mix-up - I’m not...I’ve never…”

“Hands against the car, Macaldonich.”

“Mac..Macal…” Frank turned and placed his hands on the car. “Officer, this is a mistake. My name is Frank Keane, and I…”

“Really? So there are two shaggy bastards with goofy accents tooling around this part of town? I don’t think so, Mac.”

“I swear,” Frank said, feeling a lump forming in this throat. “I’m not...I’m Frank Keane, I run a bakery on La Brea, I…”

“Fine.” The officer crossed his arms. “Prove it. Get your ID.”

With a sigh of relief Frank shoved his hands into his jean pockets. Once he’d shown this very confused officer his license, he…

Frank felt the blood drain out of his face and he felt a little dizzy. His wallet wasn’t in his pockets - he could actually picture his wallet sitting on his dresser, could hear himself thinking “Don’t forget the wallet, Frank,” and what had he done?

“What the matter,  _ Frank _ ?” the officer said, his tone weary and sarcastic. “Missing something?”

“I, uh...I appear to have left my wallet at home,” Frank said weakly.

“Yeah. I figured you might have.” The officer shook his head and held up his handcuffs. “Come on, Mac. Hands out.”

* * *

Lacey French was having a pretty fucking awful night. Between the drunk and disorderly charge and that asshole Keith, she was probably going to spend the rest of the night in this stupid holding cell. At least the bartender had vouched for her not being a hooker so she didn’t have to worry about a felony. The station door creaked open and Lacey looked up. It had been a slow night, and she was really hoping for something at least halfway interesting to happen, but then she saw who was walking in and she thought she might faint.

Lachlan Macaldonich. _Lachlan Macaldonich_. **_Lachlan Macaldonich_** was walking toward her, his signature long hair falling his face, his hands - God, those gorgeous, talented, long-fingered hands - clasped in front of him, the fingertips oddly black and…

Oh. He’d been arrested. She wondered why. She wondered what the hell he was doing in LA. She wondered if he still played, if he still sang, if he still…

She stood rooted to the spot as the officer opened the cell and lightly pushed  _ Lachlan fucking Macaldonich _ into the holding cell.

“Don’t I get a phone call?” Lachlan asked, and Lacey shivered. His voice - she’d fallen asleep listening to that voice more times than she could count. She’d also done... _ other _ things while listening to that voice, and the wine and tequila she’d drunk tonight were making her think maybe she should tell him that. See where it went.

The officer didn’t answer his question, just stalked off to his desk. Lachlan sat down heavily on one of the benches and moved as if to run his hands through his hair but froze, staring at his ink-blackened fingers. He looked dazed and more than a little terrified, which didn’t really fit her image of a 90s rocker who wasn’t exactly known for staying on the straight and narrow, but people changed, right?

Lachlan was staring at the floor now as if he were trying to figure out how to burrow his way out of the cell, and Lacey gathered all her courage. Taking a deep breath, she sidled up, sat next to him, and deliberately crossed one long stocking-clad leg over the other.

“Hey,” she said.

He glanced up at her, his eyes going comically wide as he took in her appearance: teased auburn curls, sinfully red lips, bright blue sequined dress that barely covered her ass. She looked like a million bucks and she knew it, and she grinned triumphantly when his gaze flitted over her legs and back up to her face.

“Uh. Hello.”

“Sucky night, huh?” she said.

He nodded mutely.

“Look, I know you hear this all the time but...I’m a huge fan.”

“F-fan?”

“Oh, yeah. You guys were the  _ best _ , I have all your albums, even the one you did solo, and I listen to your podcast all the time and…”

“I - I’m sorry, miss…”

“Lacey.”

“Lacey. I’m sorry, Lacey, but I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

That flummoxed her for a minute. She hadn’t thought he might not want to be recognized. “Oh. Okay. It’s just...I loved The Cranks so much, y’know? They were my absolute favorite band and their music...it meant a lot to me. I don’t want to bother you, I just wanted to...to let you know.” She paused. “And I’m sorry about Jed. We all were.”

He said nothing, simply staring at the floor. She moved a few inches away from him and leaned back against the wall, and Lachlan relaxed a bit. He took a few deep breaths, then straightened and turned to her, an apologetic smile on his face.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “Whoever Lachlan is, he’s very lucky to have your admiration.”

Lacey felt herself blush, which was ridiculous because she never blushed, and she looked away. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Lacey had almost reconciled herself to the idea that he really wasn’t going to talk to her anymore, let alone take her against the cinderblock wall and fulfill like eighty percent of her fantasies, when he spoke up again.

“Ah...what were you brought in for?”

“Drunk and disorderly,” Lacey said. “I’m not even that drunk - kinda tipsy - but when you hit a guy with a pool cue they tend to take that seriously.”

Lachlan raised his eyebrows. “A - a pool cue?”

“The guy challenged me to a game of pool, and when I started winning he copped a feel.” Lacey shrugged. “Asshole had it coming.”

Lachlan frowned. “I’m sorry, that’s...horrible.”

“Shit happens.”

“It  _ shouldn’t _ .” He sounded almost angry, a firm note in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah, well.” For some reason she hadn’t expected Lachlan to get all hot and bothered about some guy getting handsy. He’d been kind of a womanizer in his time, after all.

But...people change, right?

“And... _ you’re _ the one who ended up in jail?” Lachlan asked. “Why not him?”

“Friend of the sheriff,” Lacey said. “Plus, y’know, I was the one holding the cue.”

“But you were defending yourself.”

“According to them I was assaulting him.” Lacey shook her head. “I’m lucky he didn’t press charges.”

Lachlan didn’t say anything for a long time, but his face was kind of amazing - there were dozens of different emotions playing across it. “You’re not lucky, and you didn’t deserve it,” he said at last. “I have...some experience with... _ he _ was in the wrong, not you. I hope he has the worst headache of his life tomorrow.”

Lacey grinned. “I didn’t hit him in the head.”

“...Oh.”

* * *

This was easily the strangest night of his life: arrested for being someone he wasn’t, stuck in a grimy little jail cell with an impossibly beautiful woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a not-particularly-reputable magazine - and who  _ also _ thought he was Lachlan Macaldonich.

Whoever Lachlan Macaldonich was, he had obviously made some very strange choices in life.

They’d been sitting in silence for nearly twenty minutes, now - Lacey had tucked herself into the corner of the bench, kicked off her four-inch heels, tucked her feet up underneath her (her skirt now riding almost all the way up her legs) and leaned her head against the wall. She’d gone so quiet and still that he started to think she’d fallen asleep.

Frank rose and walked to the cell door, peering out between the bars. The lone police officer had wandered out for a “smoke break” a while ago. There was still no sign of him, and Frank wondered if he would ever get his phone call.

“ _ God _ I’m bored,” Lacey moaned from her corner of the cell, and Frank whirled around. “I wish they’d play some music or something.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to enjoy being in here,” Frank said.

“I guess not,” she said, sitting up straighter. “You could do me a solid and sing for me, though.”

“I - I don’t sing.”

“Oh, right, I forgot,” she said, rolling your eyes. “Because you’re  _ not _ Lachlan Macaldonich, you never played guitar, you were never in a band, and you never had a solo album.”

Frank shrugged helplessly.

“So if you’re not Lachlan, who are you?”

“Frank. Frank Keane. I own a bakery.”

Lacey nodded. “Okay, Frank. I get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that...sometimes it’s good to get away from all the shit in your life. So...you’re Frank. If I could be somebody else for a bit, I would too.”

“Who would you be?” He didn’t have the energy to insist again that he was  _ really _ Frank, and besides, she sounded so wistful...

She blinked at him, as if she hadn’t expected the question. “I don’t really know,” she said after a moment. “Someone - someone quiet and sensible, I guess. Someone who doesn’t get in fights at bars or have to hustle pool to make rent. I always liked to read - maybe I’d be a librarian or run a bookstore or something.” Her eyes had taken on a distant, dreamy look. “And maybe I’d meet someone nice and sweet, like...I dunno…” she sent him a little grin “...a baker with long brown hair, and we could drink coffee and talk about books and movies. And he could sing to me, but only when he wanted to.”

“I told you, Lacey, I don’t sing,” Frank said, but he felt his ears redden. He reminded himself that it wasn’t him she fancied, but this Lachlan chap.

“Right, I forgot. Sorry.”

“I do dance, though.” Frank immediately wished he hadn’t said anything, because Lacey lit up like a Christmas tree.

“You wanna dance for me? I don’t have any singles!”

“Not - not like that!” Frank exclaimed, his face burning. “I mean - foxtrot, and rumba, and - and things like that.”

“Wait, you mean...you can  _ really _ dance?” Lacey sat up and beamed at him. “Like Fred Astaire?”

“Nothing like Fred Astaire,” Frank said, holding up his hands. “F-forget I said anything.”

“No fucking way!” Lacey shoved her feet into her shoes and stood up. “Teach me!”

“Ah…” Frank glanced over his shoulder, hoping against hope that the officer might have returned, but no - he was on his own. “I…”

“Oh, come on, Lach...I mean  _ Frank _ ,” Lacey said, clasping her hands in front of her. “ _ Please _ ? I’m so bored, and I promise I’ll stop asking you to sing.”

Her eyes were wide and shining and so very, very blue, and Frank sighed. “Alright.”

She squealed, actually squealed, and threw her arms around his neck.

* * *

Lacey thought she might have died and gone to heaven. Lachlan was going to teach her to dance - he was going to hold her in his arms and she could press up against him and…

And then Lachlan reached up to unhook her hands from behind his neck, placing her left hand on his shoulder before laying his right hand flat against her shoulder blade. He took her right hand in his own and, when she tried to step in close, gently pushed her back so that their arms made a perfect frame.

There was a good foot of space between them. Fighting down disappointment, she looked down at her feet to make sure she was moving them in time with his. When he stepped forward with his left, he encouraged her to step back with her right, and vice versa.

When she had the hang of that part, he moved her in a very slow box step, and Lacey wondered if this was really worth it. The heat of his hand on her back was nearly scorching, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind, and…

“Lacey?”

Lacey shook her head and met his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I want to show you how to turn,” he said. “When I step back like this,” he demonstrated, “you have to step in after me and turn all the way, ninety degrees.”

Math? He was using  _ math _ to talk about dancing? “Sure, okay.” Lacey bit back a sigh and tried to concentrate, but this was really  _ not _ what she’d been hoping for.

Suddenly Lachlan’s hand on her back pulled a little harder, and Lacey stumbled, letting out a gasp. She tried to step forward to compensate, but she lost her balance, and Lachlan hastily bent forward, gathering up in his arms and holding her close against his chest.

Oh, God, he was so warm and solid and he smelled so  _ good _ \- earthy and sweet and just a bit like baked bread.

“You - you really do own a bakery, don’t you?” Lacey said, a little thrill rushing through her when she realized that he still had his arms tightly around her waist even though it was obvious that she wasn’t going to fall.

“Yes. I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. I just didn’t think...I don’t know what I thought.”

She was standing solidly on her feet and he still hadn’t let go of her, so she took a chance and slid her arms around his shoulders, staring up into those beautiful dark eyes that had so often haunted her dreams - God, he was so much more handsome up close. “Thanks for the dance lesson,” she said, allowing a husky note to enter her voice. 

His face went red. “I, uh...I don’t think I’m a very good teacher. You almost broke both your ankles.”

“That’s okay. This is more the kind of dancing I’m used to, anyway.” She pressed herself a little closer, and he swallowed thickly.

“Lacey, I don’t think…”

The station door squeaked open, and Lachlan practically leapt away from her. Irritated, Lacey pursed her lips and turned to glare at the officer who had just entered; the young man’s face was a picture of embarrassment as he approached the cell.

“Mr. Keane,” he said, “I’m sorry, I - I’m so sorry.”

Lachlan heaved a deep sigh, and Lacey felt a little dizzy.

“We ran your prints,” the officer said. “I’m  _ so _ sorry, I really thought...I mean, you look just like him, and…I’ll get your things immediately. You’re free to go.”

“Wait a second,” Lacey squeaked. “You’re - you’re really not Lachlan Macaldonich?”

Lachlan - no,  _ Frank -  _ looked at her, his eyes large and sad. “No. I told you I wasn’t. I’ve never even heard of him.”

Mortification swept through her, and she sat down hard on the bench. “Oh, my God. I’m so  _ sorry. _ ”

He shrugged and looked down, his hair hiding his expression. “It’s alright,” he muttered.

“No, it’s really, really not. I wouldn’t have...I wouldn’t have…”

“I know,” Frank said. “ _Believe_ _me_ , I know.”

There was something a little melancholy in his voice, and Lacey frowned, realizing what she’d said. “I mean...I  _ might _ have. If I didn’t already know who Lachlan is. There’s a reason I’ve had a gigantic crush on him my whole life, y’know.”

Frank looked up from his hair, a tiny grin on his lips. “ _ Gigantic crush _ , eh?”

“Well, yeah. Sexy accent, big brown eyes, good at something other than drinking and playing video games. You’re not exactly a booby prize.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, heading for the cell door.

“I’m serious,” Lacey said. “I’m looking you up after I get out of here - your bakery’s on La Brea, right?”

“Lacey, you don’t have to…”

“Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll find it myself, and then you’ll see.” She crossed her arms and smirked, meeting his eyes as he searched her expression, probably trying to see whether she was joking or not. “I’m gonna come get a croissant or a scone or whatever it is you make, and then you’re going to give me another dance lesson.”

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll see you around, Lacey.”

“Count on it.”

With another disbelieving smile and shake of his head, he followed the officer out of the bullpen, leaving Lacey to wonder just how many bakeries there were on La Brea, and whether he would be as adorable on the other side of the bars. He wasn’t her usual type, but her usual type sucked. Maybe it was time for a change of pace.

**Author's Note:**

> So, you have Otava and my Husband to blame for this.
> 
> In brief: the Robert Carlyle birthday game. Husband's birthday story was that he went to jail with Frank Keane. H has never seen Marilyn Hotchkiss, and I explained to him that it was more or less impossible for Frank to get arrested for anything, and H said "Mistaken identity."
> 
> Randomly one night I talked it over with Otava and then...this happened.
> 
> Is it a one-shot? Will I continue one day? I have no clue.


End file.
